A Change of Heart
by Crysania
Summary: A modern, what-if retelling of The Phantom of the Opera. What if Erik didn't want Christine?
1. Default Chapter Title

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A Change of Heart

Chapter 1

The plane arrived in Paris with no delays, even early if one could believe it. Keelie exited slowly, wondering what her new life here would entail. She had left her hometown in New York just days before, eager to leave the entire country behind. All the constant news casts about the President's sex life, the wars, the crimes, and the depraved citizens of a country that had long outgrown its infancy had disillusioned her about America.

She didn't truly expect France to be any better than her own country. In truth, she thought the world was a depraved place unworthy of her attentions. _When had I begun to feel this way?_ she wondered. Years ago, she had been fascinated by anything the world had to offer. Now, there were only three things that retained any sort of interest for her. Her music was one. Keelie played clarinet, bassoon, sang and composed. Clarinet was her first love and the one she devoted the most time to, outside of composing. The other two were what her mother called her "Unhealthy Obsessions": _Star Trek: The Next Generation_, a television show that she was truly devoted to, and _The Phantom of the Opera_. Not just the musical, mind you, but the story of the Phantom in almost every one of its many incarnations.

She was drawn to the story of the sad, disfigured genius, the man who could kill in one second and be incredibly tender in the next. There was something about the complexities of the man that had drawn her to the story in the first place and had kept her enthralled for nearly ten years.

_Phantom_ was the reason she had pointed her toes, in a manner of speaking, toward Paris. When she had decided to leave America, anywhere in the world could have been her destination. For years, she had wanted to see the Paris Opera House, to see where it all took place, to explore the subterranean depths of the structure that had become so precious to her.

Now, here she was, in Paris, making her way (slowly!) to where she could pick up her luggage. As she watched various suitcases. duffel bags, and tightly-sealed packages move be her on the conveyer belt, she contemplated what she should do now. She decided to check into her hotel first. She had booked a room in the hotel nearest the Opéra earlier in the week. Fittingly enough, the name of that hotel was _Abotel Orange Opéra_. Why it was called "Orange Opera," Keelie had yet to figure out. Perhaps someone at the hotel would explain the "orange" bit.

"Oh damn," Keelie suddenly muttered, coming back to herself. She had been so lost in her thoughts that she almost missed her one suitcase as it flew by her. Darting in front of the crowd she grabbed it and swung the heavy piece of luggage unceremoniously into the man standing next to her. She heard his breath expel and almost dropped the suitcase she had fought so valiantly to release from the conveyer belt.

"_Mademoiselle_..." He said something to her in French and she shook her head. "American, I presume." The English was a welcome sound, despite the heavy accent.

Keelie nodded, looking up at the man. Attractive didn't even begin to describe this man. Debonair, polished, his midnight-black hair pulled back into a ponytail, reminiscent of the nineteenth century. "Yes...I'm sorry about the luggage..." Her voice trailed off. This enigmatic man was watching her with a light in his eyes that she didn't partiularly understand, nor like. "I have to go."

She turned to leave, but the man's hand snaked out and wrapped his hand around her upper arm with a punishing grip. "Be careful, _mademoiselle_. The city can be dangerous. You cannot possible know everything that lurks below the beautiful façade."

She disengaged herself from his grip and ran off, darting through the crowds, his heavily-accented voice flitting through her mind. What did he mean by that? Was it a warning or a threat? With a feeling of discontent and fear, Keelie hailed a cab and took it to the _Abotel Orange Opera_.

* * *

Keelie couldn't help but look up as she approached the famous Paris Opera House. _Le Palais Garnier_, the French called it. _The Garnier Palace_.

She studied the building for a moment. The immense structure rose into the sky, great white stone, the incredible dome that was once copper, now that odd greenish colour copper turned with age. Looking further up, she saw the great statue of Apollo, raising his golden lyre to the heavens, where Christine had once talked to Raoul, and where a Phantom had listened to her betrayal and lost his tenuous hold on sanity.

The Paris Opera House was crammed into a small section of the city, as it had been since the government comissioned the building of the great monument to music in 1860. Charles Garnier had been forced to work with very little space. So instead of building a much larger building aboveground with wings to hold set-pieces, other scenery, and equipment, he had built downward, creating immense cellars. Five in number, the cellars extended over 150 feet below the surface of the Earth. The cellars directly below the first level held great scenery pieces that could be lifted in their entirety to the stage before a performance. It was through this method that the Opera House could put on operas and ballets in quick succession.

The fourth cellar housed an entire stable of horse, for use in some of the more elaborate productions. The fifth, ah that beloved fifth cellar, was where the infamous undergroud lake was.

There was something incredibly romantic and mysterious about an underground lake. Perhaps it was just the legend of the Phantom of the Opera that amde Keelie feel that way. Would she be so enamoured of the idea when she actually stood at the shore of that strange and unnatural lake? She suspected she would.

With great anticipation, Keelie stepped into the shadows of the of the building. Repressing a shudder, she noted that a slightly frightening air clung to the Opera House.

_Did all that was written in Leroux's 'Phantom of the Opera' truly occur here?_ There had been much speculation throughout the years about what exactly happened in those years the supposed "Opera Ghost" had reigned supreme over his dark castle of music. Recently the memoirs of one Armand Moncharmin had been found, along with the original lease of the building. There, written in the childish blood-red handwriting associated with the Phantom was the clause, in the exact wording that Leroux had stated, about the Opera Ghost's pension and Box five.

The new-found documents had been analyzed repeatedly to see if they were truly authentic. As of now, no historian could disprove them. For some strange reason, Keelie hoped the Phantom had been a real person, although that meant coming to terms with the very real pain the man must have endured throughout his lifetime.

How must that man have felt when his beloved Christine betrayed him? The anguish must have been incredible. To have the one you love with every ounce of your being, with every breath you take, rip out your heart with such cold callousness. Oh, how utterly dreadful. Keelie couldn't even begin to understand the all-consuming love the Phantom had felt for his Christine. Thusfar, nothing in her life came even close to that.

Shaking her head, Keelie looked around herself feeling rather foolish, wondering if any of the Parisiennes passing her by had noticed this strange reluctance to enter the imposing building.

Finally getting up the nerve to enter the structure, Keelie stepped around once of the many columns adorning the bottom floor of the Opera House. Moving quietly, she reached up to caress the wing of the gargoyle, almost as if she were asking permission to enter its Opera House. No resitance there, so she flung open one of the huge doors. It opened with no more than a sigh, gliding open far easier than she would have imagined for such a massive door.

Stepping inside and allowing her eyes to adjust to the dim interior light, Keelie got her first glimpse of the inside of the Paris Opera House. She had read somwhere that Claude Debussy, the famous French Impressionist composer of the early twentieth century, had said the Paris Opera House looked like a railway station from the outside and a luxurious Turkish bath inside. Although Keelie had never actually seen a Turkish bath, she could well imagine that what Debussy had said was accurate.

A great marble staircase was the centerpiece of the public foyer. It sloped upwards, dividing into two separate staircases, one veering off to the left, the other to the right, forming the double horseshoe shape that great staircase was known for.

Adorning the walls, the great chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, rising up from the floor in beautiful candelabras, were thousands of candles. Not real candles, as they must have been when the place was first built, but electronic lights that were meant to emulate the old-style of lighting.

The whole place was done in shades of cream, brown, and gold, the colours subdued, stately. It was a veritable tribute to Charles Garnier's genius that the Opera House was not to overdone or gaudy on the inside. The colours and decor, she speculated, were there too make the visitor feel calm and welcome.

_What must the atmosphere have felt like in the nineteenth century?_ Keelie wondered, drifting over to touch a statue holding several candelabras. Certainly, it would have been far dimmer, with flickering shadows lending a darker character to the gigantic room. Surely Erik would have fit in there!

"_Puis-je vous aider?_" Keelie whirled around, her hands leaving the statue with the shock of hearing someone so close to her.

"Oh...I'm sorry. I didn't mean to touch it..." She stammered over the words, not knowing if the young man who had disturbed her revelry could understand what she was saying. Snickering, Keelie wondered what was wrong with her. She had expected it to be Erik, the "Phantom," who spoke to her, even though she knew, had Erik not been fiction, he would have died over a hundred years earlier.

"I am sorry _Mademoiselle_," the young man continued, his eyebrows drawn low over his eyes, obviously confused as to why Keelie was stammering so pathetically. "I...uh...did not realize you are English...you are allowed to touch the statue...is there anything I can do for you?" 

Relieved that this earnest young man obviously spoke fluent English, Keelie responded eagerly, her voice stronger and less hesitant than a moment before, all thoughts of hearing Erik fleeing for a moment. "Yes, you can help me. I would like to tour the building..."

He nodded, obviously a question he was asked quite often. "You sign up for tours over there," he said, pointing over his right shoulder. Keelie turned and looked at the desk in hopeless despair, knowing it was the standard tour offered.

"Not that kind of tour. I want to see the cellars. I want to see the places where no one wants to go anymore."

The young man paused for a moment before telling her she wasn't allowed to go into non-public areas of the building. There were guided tours that showed people around the upper areas, but only the employees whose jobs took them to those areas were allowed below the first floor. Keelie was astounded to find out that no one went into the fifth cellar, and it had been that way for many years. When asked, the young man was unable to provide an explanation, nor was he able to provide the exact date that this stipulation came into effect. _Did it have to do with the Phantom?_

"Let me see a manager." Keelie was quite sure of her persuasive abilities when she was required to call upon them. She was, as she was wont to say, an "accomplished liar." Sometimes she swore she should have been in politics instead of music.

Eyeing her strangely, the young man moved off, telling her he would return with a member of the management as soon as possible. Keelie wondered if he would keep his word.

* * *

It was almost a full half hour before he returned. In the meantime Keelie had alternated between waiting patiently and pacing like a caged animal, knowing she was growing ever-closer to her goal, and yet, was now at somewhat of a standstill.

The man that approached with her young helper was quite elderly, approaching 80, maybe even 90, she would guess. He leaned on the arm of his younger companion, taking shuffling steps forward, pausing every so often to catch his breath.

Keelie rushed forward, not wanting to make the man walk any more than he needed to. It was obvious that any physical exertion fatigued him. Worried for a moment, Keelie knew it might not bode well to have to convince someone so elderly, but she was resolved to this course of action.

"Can I help you?" The voice that reached her ears did not sound as ancient as she had expected it to. Amazingly, it still held the strength of youth, along with the wisdom of the elderly. Bright blue eyes stared alertly up at her out of a wizened old face, the face of a small gnome. She suddenly noted that he was speaking English as fluently as the young man. Obviously, he had already explained to the manager that she most likely didn't speak French.

With great deference for the man's age, Keelie stated her request. "I would like to see Box five and the cellars..." For a moment, Keelie that her inquiry had fallen on deaf ears. But on closer inspection, she noted that the manager's wrinkled face had turned a deathly shade of white. Then his benevolent expression began to transform into one of quiet rage. His face contorted and he gripped his chest as he fell backwards against the young man.

"Out!" he shouted. Keelie stepped forward to help the man, to see if he was all right. With what was, perhaps, his last bit of strength, the manager shoved her away. "Out, I said!"

She turned and ran blindly away, not sure exactly what had just happened. Quite suddenly, Keelie found herself standing back on the sidewalk outside the Paris Opera House. _Now what?_

She chewed on her lower lip as she thought about the scene in the Opera House. The elderly man's face had turned a sickening shade of grey-white, his bright blue eyes bulging in a decidedly unattractive manner. _Did he know something? _Keelie wondered. Was he old enough to remember the stories? Was he there when it had all occurred? Doing some quick calculations, she decided that no, he wasn't old enough to have been there. Perhaps a relative had been. Keelie had the sudden overwhelming urge to go back and talk to him. _Do you know about Erik?_ was the most prominent question in her mind, along with: _Could the stories be true?_

Turning back to the Opera House, Keelie stole quietly back inside. The old man was gone, as was the young man who had helped her in the first place. Everything was peaceful and quiet again, almost as if nothing untoward had occurred.

A new idea suddenly struck Keelie. And, acting on it, she signed up for the first tour, gladly noting that there were already several people signed up. It would be easy to slip away and explore on her own...

* * *

The tour left promptly at 4pm. Keelie, delighted at the prospect of seeing the areas that Erik had been, waited impatiently for her chance to escape from the group. They went up the great marble staircase first and toured the other, smaller, public foyers and the salons. Although she was interested, Keelie was anxious to be off on her own.

Her chance finally came when the tour director, a flamboyant young man named Jacques, showed them to the dressing areas.

_Aah_, she thought. _At last something that is connected to the story_. Slipping away, unnoticed, from the rest of the tour, Keelie entered the nearest dressing room. Taking one quick look around, she realized this couldn't possibly be the one she was looking for. The lights had already been on when she had pushed the door open. Clothes and candy wrappers were scattered about the room, carelessly left wherever their owner had tossed them. It was, no doubt, the dressing room of one of the prima donnas. _Probably that screeching Genevieve_. She thought of the supposedly great singer of Paris and scoffed. Genevieve was nothing but an overgrown fraud.

Fruitlessly, Keelie searched each of the other dressing rooms. Each dressing room looked almost identical: dressing screen to the right, with a closet next to that. On the left, was a small dresser with a brightly-lit mirror. None were as carelessly taken care of as the first, but none were what she was looking for. Somehow, deep in her gut, she knew the one she searched for would look quite different from the rest. She knew that one had a mirror that took up an entire wall, not just one small one on top of a dresser, The books had been very clear on that point.

Keelie, finally frustrated beyond relief, slumped to the ground in the dimly-lit hallway. Had she come all this way for nothing? Was her search for the Phantom's lair already at an end? _Perhaps the Phantom never really existed. Perhaps he really was a figment of some author's imagination_. But why was he so real to her?

The singing began softly, so softly that Keelie didn't hear it at first. It seemed to be part of the very walls themselves, part of the opera. When the sound finally reached her ears, Keelie stood, wondering who in the opera had such a beautiful voice. Thus far, the tenors she had heard doing their warm-ups were only mediocre, some maybe even good. But none had a voice with such resonance and feeling. She had never heard anyone sing like this man was singing.

She followed the voice, trance-like, one step after another moving her forward. The voice kept singing, the words still beyond her range of hearing. Keelie knew she had to find the source of that voice, or she would go mad. _Where was it coming from? _

Moving down the hallway, toward an area that was much darker, she continued her search for this voice. It seemed to get louder when she turned one way, softer when she turned another. _Where was that voice_?

At long last, she found herself standing in front of a doorway. Here was where the voice was centered. Somehow, she knew it was coming from behind the door. The words were still beyond her grasp, but her heart knew that this was where her voice was coming from. Keelie raised a tentative hand to the door, just barely brushing the wooden surface. 

The voice abruptly stopped with that one touch and Keelie's mind returned herself. Blinking her eyes, she looked back the way she had come. She found that she had moved quite a bit down the hallway, nearly to the end of it. The floor slanted downward to the end of the hallway in a gentle slope, forcing the area into ever-darker shadow. Now Keelie was standing in near-darkness.

Turning back to the door, Keelie reached out and touched it again. The door was old, made of wood that was obviously warped with age, and the white paint was peeling. She wondered why this door hadn't been replaced when the others had so many years ago. Why was this one room so neglected?

Keelie steeled herself, gathering all her courage up to open that mysterious door. Why was it that she was nervous about opening this particular door? She hadn't felt this way when she had entered the other dressing-rooms. What confused her most was, perhaps, the fact that the previous dressing-rooms she had explored had all belonged to some member of the opera community. There had been the possibility, at any moment, of discovery. This one, though, was obviously unoccupied.

Finally, Keelie was able to get up the nerve to push the small wooden door inwards. The room beyond was dark and she couldn't see much past where she was standing. She reached around the door to the wall to her left, attempting to find the light switch. When she didn't find it on that side, she tried the right side of the door. 

Instead of coming into contact with a light switch, as she had expected, her hand found what could only be an old nineteenth-century lantern. Sitting on a shelf below it was a package of matches. Several were missing, she noted, evidence that the room had, at least, been visited somewhat recently. _Probably by the cleaners_, Keelie thought as she struck a match and lit the lantern.

Shadows sprang up in the room, the sound of scurrying feet assailing her ears. Keelie hoped that there weren't any of those awful arachnids crawling around...

Then any thoughts of strange creatures fleeing the light left her mind as she looked around the small dressing-room that had been revealed to her. Everything was there, exactly as she had always pictured it. The small writing table, a dried-up inkpot and quill-feather pen still sitting upon it. There were curtains in the back, there to block the view of the changing dancer or singer from any that might be in the room with them.

And there she saw what she had come to find. As the light from the lantern grew stronger, she could see, in all its glory, the great mirror that adorned one entire wall of the room.

This, beyond a doubt, was Christine Daaé's dressing-room.

* * *

_Someone is in the dressing-room_. His head shot up, his body stiffening. No one came in there anymore. It had been nearly five years since someone last set foot in the dressing-room that was once the famous, or was it infamous, Christine Daaé's.

He moved quickly through the hidden passageways, his body strong and supple, and long-accustomed to the rigors of the life he led.

Ducking down, without thinking, he entered the passageway that would lead him to the other side of the mirror in the dressing-room...

* * *

Keelie moved closer to the mirror, something drawing her to it. _Singing_...yes, it was singing that she heard. _Where is it coming from?_ She could hear it, but there was no body attached to the voice. _The Angel of Music_...yes, it must be the Angel. Suddenly, there was no Christine, no Phantom of the Opera...there was just Keelie and her Angel of Music, the one that sang with such a sweet voice.

_Come to the mirror_, it seemed to be saying in its own infinite way. _Come and hear your Angel_, _Keelie_.

"Yes, my Angel, I hear you..."

* * *

The man behind the mirror started. Who on Earth was she talking to? Certainly not him, for he was no angel. And he wasn't speaking to her, at any rate. He watched as this enigmatic young woman moved toward the mirror, toward him, her arms outstretched, a look of strange and unbridled ecstasy on her face. Was she mad?

* * *

"My Angel, my Angel..." Keelie felt the voice pulling her forward, pulling her ever-closer to the mirror. She reached her arms out to that heavenly sound. _It must be the Angel of Music_. The singing soared to greater heights, the volume increasing, the harmony pushing her forward. And, yet, she still could not make out the words. She only knew that it was the Angel, calling her, bringing her to him...

* * *

_What the Hell is going on?_ the man behind the mirror wondered for about the thousandth time in the last few minutes. Who was this woman? Why was she here, in this dressing room when none had come here in so long? Why was she speaking English, rather than French? Who was this angel she thought she heard?

_She's stark-raving mad,_ he thought. _A verifiable lunatic_. She obviously heard voices. _Schizophrenic?_ he wondered. _Multiple personalities?_ The questions floated through his mind. _She _is not_ sane_.

_Then why are you still here, watching this strange production?_ Why indeed? With that last thought, he turned to leave...

* * *

Keelie's fingertips brushed the cool surface of the mirror, her Angel's voice deafening in her ears. Surely it must draw everyone from the Opéra to this location, for how could they not hear the thundering grandeur of the Angel's voice?

"Yes, my Angel...take me to you..." The words escaped her lips, her cry drowned in her Angel's voice...

* * *

The man turned around and looked into the dressing room once more. The woman had her hands pressed to the mirror. _"Yes, my Angel...take me to you..." _He heard the words, wondering where all this was leading, when suddenly the mirror began to turn of its own accord.

With horror, he looked upon a tragedy he could not prevent. His hand snaked up and attempted to stop the infernal turning, that horrible opening of the mirror into his domain. But it was not to be...it was, indeed, not controlled by human hands, but he was not aware of that just yet. His mirror had betrayed him. With a gasp, he was suddenly confronted with that mad woman. She was thrust from the dressing room, into the Communard's passage, and into his arms.

* * *

"Yes, _yes_...my Angel..." The mirror seemed to open before her, extending the size of the dressing room into infinity. She stepped forward following the voice. She moved into the darkness of that dank hallway and, moments before the mirror finished its revolution, her Angel stopped his singing. Keelie was alone in the dark, cut off from any means of escape. Her mouth opened in horror. _"No!!!!!"_

* * *

The man behind the mirror shoved the madwoman away from him when her scream invaded his silence. She seemed to know that something was wrong, but was she truly aware of where she was? He decided not to wait around and find out. Turning from her, he walked off.

* * *

Keelie blinked, her mind coming back to itself, her ears still ringing with an angel's voice. "Where am I?" she asked the unresponsive darkness around her. She had been searching for Christine Daaé's dressing room. Had she found it? _Yes_...the answer came easily to her mind. She suddenly remembered opening the door and lighting the lamp. Her eyes had focused on what she knew to be what she had been looking for...

And then she was here, in the dark, without knowing exactly where _here_ was, nor how she had gotten there.

She looked around her, her eyes gradually becoming accustomed to the dark. The passageway was damp, the floor beneath her feet dusty with misuse. _But what is _that_?_ She kneeled down to inspect the floor. There were her footprints in the dust, seeming to come from the wall behind her. _The mirror_...she wondered, but refused to think on that subject. That was not possible...

Besides her own tracks, there was another set. It stopped near where she now stood, and then turned and went in the opposite direction from which they came. With a shrug, wondering what else she could possibly do, Keelie began to follow that other set of mysterious tracks, hoping to find the owner.

The tracks she followed eventually led to a dirt path that wound gently downward. If the knowledge she had gleaned from Gaston Leroux's "Phantom of the Opera" was correct, this was the path the show horses once took to arrive at the stage for various over-done performances. This would, she assumed, eventually lead to that mysterious lake she so wanted to see.

* * *

He picked his way slowly down the path, his mind wandering to the scene in the dressing room, his arms remembering the feel of her pressing into him for the few moments she had been in his arms. _How had that infernal mirror opened itself?_ The question bothered him. He knew he had not tripped it accidently himself, for he had been nowhere near the mechanism when it had begun its turning. The young woman on the other side also could not have done anything by accident. She, too, had been nowhere near the mechanism.

The two conclusions he drew from his analysis of the problem were equally upsetting. The first was that the mechanism had broken. It was possible that it could now open at any time, without provocation. If that was the case, then he would have to either figure out how to fix it, or force the mirror to stay closed forever, thus cutting off one of his many routes to safety.

The other conclusion would make him out to be as insane as that woman who had started this whole problem. Perhaps her angel, that mysterious being she believed she was communicating with, had opened the mirror. In which case, he had to wonder why that angel had interfered in his solitary way of life.

Really, there was only one conclusion. Shaking his head at the absurdity of an angel opening that mirror, he turned to go back and check the mechanism before any other unsuspecting tourists found themselves in his domain.

The voice that suddenly spoke froze him his tracks belonged to the madwoman. "Stop," it said. "Who are you?"

* * *

Keelie continued down the dirt path, following tracks that she hoped were there. Ever since she had found this path, the tracks had disappeared into the myriad of others that had trampled this path for ages. She assumed, though, that the mysterious being had continued this way.

_What was that?_ Up ahead she thought she detected something moving. Just a brush of fabric against the wall, but it was something nonetheless. _Could it be the one she was looking for?_

Rushing forward, Keelie sought to catch up with whomever was ahead. As she rounded the next corner, she saw that it was, indeed, the one she was looking for.

"Stop," she said, not knowing really what else to say, hoping that if she spoke he would turn around and look at her. "Who are you?"

* * *

Why he stopped, he would never exactly know. Perhaps it was Fate's whim, or the work of a capricious God he no longer believed in. "Who are you?" The madwoman's husky, breathless voice. _Who am I? _He didn't truly know.

He turned around to face the madwoman. And for the first time in several years, he spoke directly to another human being. "I am Erik." The name wasn't really his, but for all intents and purposes, it suited him more than his real name.

Keelie scoffed at that. _Erik?_ The chances that this enigmatic man of shadows had that name was slim. "And I suppose you are the 'Phantom of the Opera' as well?"

Erik laughed. "In a manner of speaking. Why are you here?"

Keelie cocked an eyebrow, deciding two could play at this strange game. "Why am I here? I am Christine Daaé. Why should I not be here?"

Erik growled out his rage and moved closer to her. _Who does she think she is? Christine Daaé indeed._ "Why are you here?" He ground out the words, his musical voice reduced to gravelly shadow of its normal beauty.

"You don't believe I'm Christine?" Her voice held genuine incredulity, surprise evident in every action. _I should have been an actress._

"No, I do not."

"And I don't believe you are Erik. The real 'Phantom of the Opera', if he existed, would have died long ago."

Again that growl of frustration. _Damn her._ "You need know nothing else about me. I am Erik. You are not Christine."

Exasperated, Keelie decided to concede this one point. "No, I am not Christine. My name is Keelie Lane."

"Well, Mademoiselle Lane." The voice that spoke was a mere whisper. It drew her closer, ever closer to the man, seductive, pulsing. "Get the hell out of here!" 


	2. Default Chapter Title

__

A Change of Heart

Chapter 2

The volume of his voice was raised so suddenly that she jumped back, shocked. "Well, _excuse me_!" Keelie exclaimed, rounding on this man who called himself Erik. "What gives you the right to tell _me_ to leave here?"

"This is my domain," he snapped back at her. "You don't belong here!" He retreated further into himself, glorying in the feelings bubbling to the surface, pushing past his skin, dancing in front of his eyes. "Get the hell out of here!" he said once again, just to hear, in his own voice, the rage he felt. He didn't need this Keelie Lane, this interferring madwoman, who thought she heard angels in a dressing room, to invade his self-inflicted solitude. Turning gracefully on one heel, he strode off into the darkness.

Keelie watched as his slender form was engulfed by immense shadows, knowing that if he left her now, she would most likely never see him again. _Never mind that this is the _first_ time I've seen him as well_, she thought with the wry amusement that was so normal for her. "Please...don't leave..." She called after him, gratified to hear his rapid footsteps hesitate, then stop completely. She took a few steps towards him. "I...I'm sorry..."

Erik turned back around, not understanding why he did as she bade for a second time. Stepping further into the shadows, seeking to protect himself from her inquisitive gaze, he asked, "What do you want of me?"

"You live here, don't you?" Keelie asked, cringing inwardly at how straightfoward she was being with this odd man. She was certain he lived in the cellars; he _must_ if he was going by the name "Erik." _That cannot be his real name_, she thought once more. Somehow she knew that, and she wondered what had happened to force him to go to ground the way he had.

The sigh and the word that reached her ears a moment later were hardly audible. "Yes." 

Just one word, said into the infinity of silence. It held a world of sorrow and optimism gone wrong. Just that one word and her heart began to open to a friendship she should have never considered. "Why?" Silence greeted her ears, not for the first time she would later realize. "You don't want to explain your life, do you?" Keelie laughed, the sound forced and unnatural in the overpowering silence surrounding them. "In which case, I'll tell you why _I'm_ down here..."

"I don't want to know..."

"Of course you don't. But I'll tell you anyway." Erik made another sound of protest, which Keelie purposely ignored. "I hate my country. The whole place makes me feel discontented. I'm American, by the way, not English. Anyway, I felt I needed a change of scenery. Why _here_, I can hear you ask...or maybe you're not asking that. Most likely, you wish I would leave. but that isn't going to happen anytime soon. Sorry, I get off the subject a lot...I came to Paris, and more specifically the Paris Opera House, because I love the story of the Phantom. You scoff, or at least I think you do. You know, I can't see you there in the shadows..."

"That is the way I intend it." Erik studied Keelie as she continued her monologue. Well, he conceded, it wasn't exactly a monologue. She was putting thoughts into his head and words into his mouth, almost as if they were truly carrying on a conversation. To his detriment, she was uncannily accurate about both.

"Erik?" she suddenly asked, still not feeling quite right about using that name; but if that was what he wanted, she would go along with it for the time being. Her story was finished and she was waiting for some sort of reply from this shadowy figure. When none was forthcoming, she realized he wasn't exactly paying much attention to her words.

"Keelie, you shouldn't be here," Erik said, his voice taking on a note of resignation. It was strange conversing with someone after all this time. He felt quite fatigued by the whole encounter.

"I want to see the lake. Will you take me there?" Ah, this crazy impertinence! She wondered where on Earth this other person was coming from. Something about this mysterious character was bringing out another side of her that she truly didn't understand.

"No," came the expected reply.

Keelie stepped forward, moving closer to this strange man, who lived in the cellars of the Paris Opera House as the Phantom once had, this man who tried to convince her to leave and at the same time made very little effort to make her do so.

Erik pulled himself back from her, hoping she couldn't see him from where she stood. _No one sees me_, he thought. _It just doesn't happen. It _can't_ happen. I won't allow it to_. How could he extricate himself from this highly unusual predicament? This madwoman had seen him, had talked to him. She knew where he lived. _Well, not exactly where you live_, he conceded. She only knew he lived in the cellars. Surely she would never guess exactly where in that vast kingdom his home was?

"Why don't you show yourself?" she asked, needing to know all the answers _now_, rather than waiting to find them out at some later date.

"Why must you ask these questions? Is there some reason you insist on this insanity?" Erik could feel a vein begin to throb near his temple. Reaching up, he massaged it with one hand. "Go away," he said.

Again, that same tone of resignation. "Erik..." she whispered, stepping further forward.

"Don't you _ever_ listen to people?" he screeched, rapidly losing control again. The walls began to close in on him, the darkness beginning to suffocate. The woman was too close, far too close. "I said, _leave me alone_!!" With all his might, he shoved the woman to the side, pushing her into the unyielding wall. She didn't resist him this time, perhaps a part of her recognizing his irrational need to flee from her.

Keelie watched him go, a part of her leaving with him. The place where she stood was no longer a mysterious passage leading to the Phantom. Now, it was lonely, dark, and quite frightening. _How the hell am I going to get out of here_...

* * *

Keelie stepped into the early-evening sun, squinting in the surprisingly bright light. _Well, perhaps _bright_ wasn't the greatest term for it_, she thought as her eyes gradually adjusted to being back out in the sunlight. It was actually nearing sunset, the sun low and an incredible shade of red-orange. Slowly, ever so slowly, the enormous ball of fire sunk into the horizon, a great disk falling to its death in a painted sky, only to rise again the next morning. It was reincarnation at its most glorious.

Pausing for a moment to get her bearings and to put her sunglasses on, Keelie contemplated what she should do now. She had the whole evening ahead of her and very little to do during that time.

Suddenly, a yawn burst out of her. _Why am I so tired?_ she wondered. It was only about five or six in the evening. _Of course!_ That meant it was eleven or twelve in the morning back home in Indiana. She'd been up for almost 20 hours straight!

That last thought made up her mind _for_ her. She needed to go back to the hotel to take a short nap. When she woke up, she'd think about what to do that night.

* * *

Keelie collapsed on her bed, staring around the room. _Damn, these French didn't know how to decorate_. The carpet was a strange colour of orangish-red, with a hint of deep brown, almost as if the maker didn't have enough threads of any one colour to make the carpet, so instead combined them to make one hideously ugly colour. The curtains and the bedspread looked like they belonged in the seventies: gaudy, flamboyant, a great conflagration of reds, greens, burnt orange, and white. The chairs were small, as was the table; there were flowers that unfortunately matched the rest of the hideous decorations sitting on the table. The colours were so intense Keelie could barely keep her eyes open.

_Sleep, Keelie_..._you need sleep_...Her mind wouldn't stop working. It wouldn't since the man calling himself Erik had fled from her...

Her first inclination had been to follow him and, in that pursuit, she had taken a few steps in that direction. But she couldn't see him and there weren't any footsteps to mark his silent passage. "Erik!" she had shouted. "Come back!" Silence had greeted her ears, silence greater than she could imagine.

Erik was gone, and she was alone in that dark passageway. If her sense of time was even somewhat accurate, she spent the next hour searching for the way back to Christine Daaé's dressing room. Indeed, she only found it by accident. Frustrated beyond belief, she had thrust herself down another passageway, her anger beginning to get the better of her. Cursing Erik and all the hellish twists and turns of the Opera House cellars, she finally came across a large window. Well, not a window exactly...it had taken her only a few seconds to know what she was facing. This was the other side of Christine Daaé's mirror. The two-way mirror was so rarely mentioned that for a moment she hadn't understood what she was seeing.

With realization had come more frustration. Now she had to find the mechanism, a virtual impossibility without knowing where it was hidden. Certainly the lack of light did not help, either. "Damn, damn, damn..." she had muttered, searching in vain for far longer than she had wanted to spend on that task.

The sound that had come to ears a moment before she was ready to give up was just a click, again such a small sound in such great silence. The mirror had swung on its axis and abruptly flew open, carrying Keelie with it, back into Christine's dressing room. She had turned around quickly, hoping to jam something in that seldom-seen opening. _Not quick enough...bloody hell..._

"You aren't going to make this easy for me, are you?" she shouted to no one in particular. _Who on Earth was opening that mirror?_

Shaking her head, Keelie had left the dressing room and, at last, found her way back to the immense marble staircase. The great pulic foyer was now darkened, the numerous electric candles dimmed, but still running. She imagined that they were kept running all the time, since there always seemed to be at least some person occupying the massive structure. The walk to the first floor had been without incident, until, quite suddenly a man appeared before. Keelie had started, not expecting to see anyone, not even knowing what time it was.

The man had looked up at her as she descended the staircase. Approaching him, she had gotten a chance to study him for a moment. _Jacques_...the young man who had been the tour director. _I hope he doesn't recognize me as the "one that slipped away,"_ she had thought.

Unfortunately, she had no such luck. "You...what happened to you?" the man had asked, darting over to her. "Are you all right?"

Luck had been somewhat with her. The man obviously had no idea that she had left the group on purpose. "I...I got lost. I lingered too long in a room and then the tour was gone..." Making an attempt to look as contrite as possible, Keelie stammered over the explanation.

"You just found your way here now?" The young man looked incredulous. She could almost hear his thoughts: _It took you _this_ long to find your way out_.

"Oh no...I wandered through the public area alone for awhile, watched people taking care of business, spent some time alone in one of the salons...you know, that kind of stuff." With that, Keelie had excused herself, not wanting him to pry any further.

The man had called after her. "If you want to finish the tour, come back to-morrow." And then she was outside, on the street, away from his prying eyes. 

_Oh yes_..._I'll be back to-morrow_...

* * *

Now she was laying on the bed in her hotel room, wondering at the day's events. Who was this "Erik"? Did he truly live in the cellars of the Opera House? The thought kept flitting through her head that he could possibly have been leading her on, making her believe the Phantom had been a true story. Perhaps he was some kind of pervert, preying on innocent women.

_Wait a second_...A thought suddenly came to her. She remembered now how she had gotten into that dark hallway on the other side of Christine's mirror. She had heard singing...and angel's singing. Mesmerized, she had called to the Angel of Music.

And then she was behind the mirror, in the Communard's passage, following a man who called himself Erik. The mirror had turned on its own, just as it had when she returned to the dressing room. Erik had run away from her...he would not have opened it. She didn't know where the mechanism was and, besides, she had only lightly touched the mirror. Certainly _that_ couldn't have started the mirror turning on it's axis.

_Perhaps there really _is_ an Angel of Music_...

* * *

_No, not an angel_...Not even an Angel of Music, despite the fact that he haunted the opera. _A Phantom_, yes. _The Phantom of the Opera_...he chuckled. _Le Palais Garnier_ truly had an "Opera Ghost" now...

* * *

Erik paced across the stage, his mood more sour than it had been in a very long time. He didn't remember ever feeling so discontent and angry in his entire life. _Keelie Lane_...even her name frustrated him. Who was she? Why was she in his Opera House? She had been in Christine Daaé's dressing room. Surely she had some purpose in going there. He knew that whatever her purpose was, it had been abandoned when the mirror opened. _No_..._before that_. It had occured when she heard that mysterious voice.

Did he truly believe she had heard a voice? _The Angel of Music?_ Was that possible? When he had talked to her in the Communard's passage, she hadn't seemed as insane as he had assumed she must be. Strangely enough, she had seemed rather lucid.

_I want to see the lake. Will you take me there?_...her voice echoed perpetually in his head, that sweet, innocent voice. _Show her the lake?_ No, he could not do that. He couldn't go anywhere near her. Their meeting was an accident. It would never happen again.

Why, then, was he so worried that his peaceful existence had been permanently disturbed?

* * *

Keelie awoke feeling only somewhat refreshed. Her dreams had been srange, dark, filled with images of that mysterious man calling himself Erik. Who was he, what had he done that was so awful he felt the need to live underneath the Paris Opera House?

Her rather active imagination took over, her thoughts turning to the possible reasons. He could be a recluse, wanting to stay away from other people. Why was he a reculse then? He didn't like people? _No, that won't work_. Quite the contrary, tt seemed as if he were starved for attention. He acted like he didn't want her there, and yet he didn't leave when he had a chance to. Twice, she had called him back. Twice, he had returned, though reluctantly so. He listened to her rambling story, one that she had intended for the sole purpose of keeping him there while she thought of some better way to get him talking. It hadn't worked especially well. In the end, he had left her to find her own way out of that dark passage.

_Hmmm_...another scenario. He could be a felon. _Oh dear_. Running from the law, hiding out in a place so vast, so unfamiliar to the police, that no one would even consider it a possibilty, much less set foot in it to look for him. But why on Earth would he have talked to her? And why would he let her see him? _One problem: you never saw him_. Keelie tried to remember what Erik looked like...all she could see in her mind was his silhouette, a darker shape than the surrounding blackness outlined against the wall. In reality, that was all she had seen. Erik had carefully made sure she wouldn't see his face. He had been wearing a hat, now that she thought about it, something with a wide brim. _Oh hell_...he had probably been dressed like the Phantom, too. She wondered if he had been wearing mask as well.

There was an excellent chance he was some sort of escapee from a mental institute. Perhaps he had been locked up _because_ he thought he was the Phantom. Possible...but not probable. He had seemed too coherent, too _aware_, to be that mentally unstable.

Pushing these thoughts from her mind, Keelie hopped out of bed to take a shower. It would feel good against her skin. Already envisioning the healing power of that hot spray of water, Keelie began pulling out a variety of toiletries...

* * *

Erik strode from the stage, his mental capacity greatly diminished. _I need to inspect that damn mirror_...Something must have caused it to turn, to open and admit Keelie into his unseen world. It wasn't her "Angel of Music," he knew that for sure. Had the mechanism broken? There was always the possibilty that one of them had accidentally tripped _another_switch that sent it spinning on its axis. He thought he knew all the twists and turns of his labrynthine world. Perhaps he did not.

Erik had been living in the mysterious cellars of the Paris Opera House for nearly nine years now. This world was his and his alone. Very few people entered into that perpetual darkness, and that was exactly the way he liked it. He didn't want anyone around him, he was truly reclusive in that respect. Unlike his predecessor, that curious man calling himself the "Opera Ghost," he preferred to truly keep to himself. There was no reason to play tricks on the little ballet rats, _not that they don't deserve it from time to time_. Such pranks would only serve to have them recognize that there was someone living here. Questions would arise that he would rather not have answered. The police would look into it, any sort of fear of the dank cellars put aside. This modern world was quite different from the one the Opera Ghost had inhabited: it was scientific, skeptical, hardened. This world was based on knowledge, not superstition. An "Opera Ghost" would not be tolerated here.

Drawing himself out of his recollections, he made his way quietly and completely unseen to Christine Daaé's dressing room.

He slipped inside the small room, lighting the lamp without really thinking about. _Where had she been when the mirror turned?_ he asked himself, looking around the gradually lightening room. She had been near the mirror, very near it. Yes, that was right. She had been touching it, lightly, ever so lightly, a mere caress if he had judged it with any accuracy. And she had been near the middle of the mirror, slightly off to his right, which meant to the left on this side. He treaded closer to the object of his close scrutiny, trying not to look into the unfeeling object. _Mirrors_...he scoffed. Mirrors were tools of the devil, making you see in cruel clarity exactly how things were.

Reaching out he touched the mirror lightly, focusing on where that one graceful hand met its reflection. Truly, they were one of the few untouched and beautiful things on his body. His gaze flitted to what little of his face he could see for a moment and he sneered at the reflection. _Dammit_...he thought. _Why me?_

Cursing in frustration, he hit the mirror, forgetting his goal for the moment. _No_..._I need to to find out what happened_. He inspected the mirror, ran his hands lightly over every inch that he could reach, then went back in touched every area harder, with more pressure. Stretching upwards, he touched a corner of the faded wallpaper, and was gratified when the mirror opened as he had commanded it to. He let it close, remaining in the dressing room to do some more inspections. Discovering nothing, cursing with frustration for probably the thousandth time since he met that strange madwoman, Keelie Lane, he reopened the mirror and followed it through this time.

He searched around the other side, checking the mechanism, finding it worked as perfectly as it always did. He stood where he had been when the mirror had begun to turn, rocking back and forth, trying to find some trigger on the groud. _Nothing_...he could find no other way to open the mirror.

There was no other conclusion except that it had turned on its own. Swearing profusely, he left the mirror, not wanting to further inspect it. There was nothing wrong with the mechanism that controlled its mysterious turning. There were no other switches to put it into motion. It had turned of its own accord. Shaking his head, he wondered what in Heaven or on Earth could have done that? That question led unstoppingly to the next: _why_ did something turn the mirror at that exact moment?

* * *

Wrapped in the fluffy orange towel provided by the hotel, another one adorning her head like a turban, Keelie stepped out of the bathroom. The shower had felt wonderful, completely relaxing. Her mind felt much clearer now, although she still had no idea what to do about the situation with Erik. "Well, there's nothing I can do about it now," she proclaimed to herself, pulling down the blow dryer the hotel provided and proceeding to get ready.

Slipping into a pair of khakis and a sleeveless blouse of the palest pink, she found herself whistling despite the strange circumstances she had found herself in. Keelie looked into the bathroom mirror, carefully applying her make-up: eyeshadow, mascara, just a hint of blush and lip gloss. Deeming herself acceptable, she grabbed her purse from where she'd left it on the table and headed out the door.

The first item on her agenda was to find a decent restaurant, one which she could afford on her somewhat limited funds, and sample some of the fine French cuisine she had heard about for so long.

She wandered down the street, away from the Paris Opera House, and finally found a small café, with tables on the outside. She stepped into the fenced-in area and was immediately seated at one the smaller tables. It felt odd to be eating alone, but she didn't have much of a choice. She had come to France alone. She hadn't particularly wanted anyone here with her. There were things she had wanted to accomplish that no one need get involved with. Her friends thought she was crazy, that her interest in "Phantom of the Opera" was stranger and obsessive. They loved her, her down-to-Earth, _normal_ friends, but they couldn't even begin to understand her. Keelie knew she was very different from everyone she knew. These friends of hers grounded her, though, when her went too far into the clouds, when even her legs threatened to follow her to mysterious places. They pulled her back down and made her realize she couldn't daydream her days away. If it wasn't for them, she'd have long ago been lost to the world.

"_Mademoiselle_..." Keelie jumped when the voice interrupted her thoughts.

"I'm sorry...I was daydreaming..." she said.

"You are English?" the man asked, his speech laboured. It was obvious he wasn't fluent in the language.

"American, actually, but close enough," she said with some derision.

The man turned and walked off. _Oops_, Keelie thought. She watched him converse with another man, who then came across the room to her. "Hello, _Mademoiselle_...I will be your waiter to-night. Francois, regrettably, does not speak English all that well."

"Sorry," she said, apologizing to her new waiter. If she could only speak French, it would make this little adventure much easier on everyone, herself included.

"_Non_. It happens from time to time. My name is Jean-Luc. Can I get you anything to drink?" He took her drink order and strode off. _Jean-Luc_, Keelie thought, snickering inside. _Like Captain Picard_.

This little adventure of hers was turning into one great mishap. She had caused more than one person to struggle through a conversation in English. _Not Erik_...no, not Erik. He hadn't had any difficulty with her language. He spoke it with almost no accent, his resonant voice forming the syllables with astonishing accuracy. Only once or twice had she noticed any sort of oddness of pronunciation, and those mostly sounded slightly British. Perhaps that engimatic man wasn't French. Perhaps he was from England, or Ireland. 

The waiter returned with her drink, pulling her out of her reverie once more. "Are you ready to order?" Keelie wasn't. She had been to lost in her thoughts to take a look at the menu. Perusing it rather quickly, she chose a chicken dish that looked halfway decent. The waiter smiled at her, a dimple showing for a moment in his very tan cheek, and tried to initiate a conversation. "So, you are American?"

"Yes," Keelie replied, too distracted by recent events to carry on small-talk.

"What is it like over there? I've never been there."

"It's America...I don't know. It's normal to me. Our President's a pervert..." She didn't know what to say. How do you describe your home to someone who has never been there, especially when you know very little about his own country? And, more importantly, how do you get rid of someone who wants to talk to you when you have no interest in talking to them.

It wasn't that this waiter, this Jean-Luc, was unattractive. Quite the contrary, Keelie thought as she studied his backside as he walked off. He was fit and trim, with wide shoulders and a swaggering gait that spoke of hours spent in the gym lifting weights. His deep brown hair was almost black and was worn longer than was fashionable. It hung to just above his shoulders, sweeping across them in a slightly ragged cut.

_Why does he want small talk with _me_?_ Keelie wondered for a moment. Men back in America rarely took interest her. She had only one boyfriend to her credit at the moment. She and Tim had been together for nearly a year and a half before they broke up. He was now her best friend, the only one who knew about this crazy stunt she was pulling.

Perhaps it was the lure of someone foreign. She had seen that one before. Her female friends seemed to be lured in easily by a good-looking man with an accent. Hell, they had even been lured in by men they didn't find all that attractive if they had a foreign accent. _An accent doesn't make the man_, she had told them over and over again. _Just because they talk "cool" doesn't mean they _are _cool_. Had the listened to her? _No_...

Jean-Luc returned to her table with her meal far quicker than she could have possibly imagined. Again, he tried to initiate small talk with her, but Keelie remained standoffish without exactly meaning to.

Her thoughts turned back to Erik as she ate. What was he doing at this moment? Was he whereever he had made his home, eating by himself as well. _His home_. Keelie wondered where exactly it was. _His home?_ Surely it couldn't be there...no, that wasn't possible. The story of the Opera Ghost was not true. There was no house there, not by the lake. _Oh God, the lake_...That mysterious underground body of water, the one she had asked Erik to show her to and which he had flatly refused to do.

Keelie took one more bite of her meal and asked the nearest waiter to bring her a box and her check. Moments later, Jean-Luc returned with the asked-for items, a slight frown creasing his handsome face. "You are leaving already?" he asked, disappointment obvious in his stance and his voice.

"Yes, I must." She pulled out a decent amount of money, knowing his tip was far too large, but not wanting to take the time to wait for change. Then out the door she went, carrying her left-overs with her.

_The lake_, was all she could think of. His home must be on the other side, exactly where it was said in the book. If that were true..._If that were true_..._then the story of the Phantom was as well_...

* * *

Keelie had raced through the night to her hotel, dropping her left-over food off and brushing her teeth. With great haste, she suddenly found herself standing once again outside the Paris Opera House. Miraculously, one of the giant double doors was left slightly ajar, most likely be accident. How had such a thing occured? Surely, the staff of such an important building as the opera house would be more competent than this. Or was the door left open by the same entity that had opened the mirror for her. Sighing with the frustration of not completely understanding what was going on, feeling a little like a lamb being led to the slaughter, she slipped through the door into the darkened interior of the opera house. She made her way through the main foyer, glancing nervously about herself, always on the alert for the sound of footsteps or the glimpse of someone else. Up the stairs of the great marble staircase, through the other public areas she remembered from the tour, and, at last, into the hallway in which she had found Christine Daaé's dressing room, she went. With little difficulty, she proceeded to the small wooden door she recalled from her previous experience and crept into the room. The oil lamp had long-since gone out and she re-lit it as quickly as she could, shivering with unnamed feelings in the darkness of that room.

As before, the lamp did little to light the dusty interior, but it gave off enough light for her to see her way to the mirror. No angel's voice greeted her this time, nothing was there to pull her forward, to mesmerize her. But, as before, when she reached out a hand and touched the mirror, it opened for her, pulling her into its dark world.

* * *

_Yes, my dear, come forward...I will be there_. He was amazed at how easy this young woman was to control. _Yes, a little further_. The mirror opened, she moved inside. With a smile, he pulled her further along, using his incredible willpower. She would never know he had been there. She would always believe she had done this of her own accord...

* * *

Erik stood cloaked in shadow, his form still, only his eyes moving, following the path she took. Keelie had returned to his midnight world. She moved lithely through the passageways, her steps sure and strong. Only the look on her face and the hands that would occasionally flutter outwards from her body to briefly touch a wall or to shine around her the dim lamp she gripped tightly in one hand betrayed her emotions.

Did she know where she was going? Did she rememember from earlier that day? For a time he believed she did. She followed the same path as before, passing close by him, so close that he only had to shift slightly or reach out a hand and she would notice his presence. But no move betrayed him. Erik was used to remaining motionless for hours. The mere second it took her to approach and move past him couldn't shake his immense control.

He followed her to the place where they had met earlier and was pleased to see her pause, obviously unsure of where to go next. He knew she'd move in the wrong direction and get herself hopefully lost in his labyrinth, and then he'd be rid of her for good. A feral smile crossed his features. _My home will be my own again_.

With great surprise he watched her turn towards the passage that would take her further down into his world, the path that would lead her directly to the lake. Surely this must be some terrible quirk of fate. First the mirror, and obviously not just once, but twice. Now she would find the lake. What would she do when she got there?

Erik had no choice but to continue following her. With a barely concealed sigh, he moved after Keelie's small form, always keeping to the shadows, doing so without having to think about it. It was so ingrained into his system that even when alone in his own dwelling, he sought to remain hidden from view.

As he expected, she made it all the way to the lake with no interference. Of course, who he expected to interfere with her he didn't know. The only one who frequented this area was himself and, perhaps, his predecessor's ghost. _What a ludicrous thought_. His "predecessor" had never really existed. He was just a character in a book, a manifestation of some author's extensive imagination..._Wasn't he?_

* * *

Keelie knelt at the edge of the lake, her mind frantcially trying to figure out how she had found her way down here. She remembered moving through the mirror as it opened before her. And then she was here. _How?_

She looked out over the surface, the inky blackness that spread out before her, engulfed in swirling bluish mist that seemed to glow if its own volition. No candles lit the darkness, the only light in the huge cavern coming from her lamp. She moved it behind her, blocking it from the lake, and still that mist glowed eerily around her.

There was no sound here, the lake was still and quiet, stagnating here in this gigantic tub. She leaned forward and swirled some of the water around. It was icy cold and she shivered in reaction, the dampness and utter desolation of the place finally reaching her mind.

_What was that?_ Was that a sound she had heard, a shuffling noise, the sound of cloth brushing the ground. It was a carefully concealed sound, one she was sure she wasn't meant to hear. "Erik, is that you?" she called out, her voice echoing around her, a ghostly mockery of the desperation with which she addressed that mysterious man.

No answer came. No sounds assailed her ears. "Erik, please..." She spoke again, quiter this time. Once again, there was no response.

* * *

Erik heard her call out to him, saw the frantic way in which she looked around herself, the hope she had on her face when she heard his incredible poise and balance slip for a moment. Still, he did not answer, his stern will clamping down on his voice. Twice he had answered her when he knew he should run. Twice he had turned back to her, let her speak to him. Twice he had _almost_ let her see him. Not this time, though. This time he would watch, and wait for her to leave.

He saw her slump forward, her forehead to the damp ground, her long blond hair dirtying itself on the damp rocks. Why was she here? Why had she returned?

He slipped a little closer to her, moving stealthily along the wall, watching, waiting.

She called out once more, jumping suddenly to her feet. "Erik?" Spinning around, looking almost exactly where he was, she said, "Angel?" The angel, again.

At long last, Keelie's shoulders slumped and he saw her shiver. She was nearing the end of her vigil at the lake. She moved a little to the left, along the side of the lake. Then she hesitated and stopped, a frown furrowing her brow. She turned to move in the opposite direction, and paused again.

Finally, though, Erik watched her sigh and head in the direction that would take her out of his domain. Sighing, he followed her all the way back to the mirror and watched her step through, unimpeded. _I _have_ to find out how she does that_...

Then she was gone from his world and Erik could return peacefully to his home to push thoughts of this alarming new development to the back of his tired mind. 


End file.
